Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

What Dreams May Come August 1921-Part One

She was floating. Underneath her she could feel the machinery of a car propelling her forward, but why was she in a car? Who was driving? She tried to move her mouth, to ask who was driving her and why, but her mouth wouldn't cooperate. It felt like it was full of cottonwool. Her eyelids were so heavy she couldn't even open them. There was a hand on a knee. It felt familiar, she thought, but it was not Richard. Jimmy? Whomever it was wanted to comfort her, she thought. She tried to move her hand, thinking she could grab the man's hand, but she couldn't. It felt like she was hugging herself and she couldn't stop. Why couldn't she move her arms? Panic rose in her throat and she felt like she might choke on it. What was happening to her? Was this a dream?

What happened today? Why did she feel drunk? Her head felt like she'd down a couple of bottles of whiskey. She forced herself to recall the day. She'd gotten up. She'd dressed in a green linen skirt, a peach and green striped blouse, and her leather sandals. She could feel them on her feet. Richard had been distracted, had barely kissed her goodbye, but he had made breakfast and fed Tommy. Then she and Tommy went to the post office and the library. When they came back it was time to feed Tommy again, so she started making sandwiches and...

Tommy.

Oh my god, Tommy was alone. She couldn't think of where Richard and Jimmy were, but they weren't home. She tried desperately to get the man's attention, to try and signal that Tommy was alone and was too little to be left without anyone to watch him. The tiredness pulled her down even as she tried to swim up, and her head was soon so heavy she couldn't hold it up.

***

His eternal watchfulness meant he saw everything, and he was especially watchful over the house that contained Clara and Tommy. Their Model-T was parked by the service porch. Clara always cheated it over so it was easier to get Tommy out of the passenger side door. He'd have to look to make sure she hadn't let Tommy eat in the car again. Who knew jam could get into so many places? He wondered the day that he cleaned the jam out of the upholstery of his car if Tommy had managed to get any of it into his mouth. A box sat on the service porch. Grocery delivery, but why hadn't Clara brought it in? Well, it was late enough that Tommy should be up from his nap. They were probably on the beach and Clara didn't realize her order had arrived.

It was when his eye trailed up to the front of the house that it felt like his heart stopped beating in his chest. The front door was ajar. Just slightly open. Clara wouldn't leave the door open. She just wouldn't. There were also tire tracks in the grass.

"Jimmy," he growled out while pulling the Glock from his waistband.

Jimmy had indulged in several glasses of bourbon at lunch, and mixed with the disappearing adrenaline from earlier he was feeling pleasantly numb. Numb was a state he now chased at all times. Richard was already out of the Ford when Jimmy realized the door was open. Fuck, Tommy, Clara, he thought, his heart dropping.

Richard feared what he was going to see before he even walked on the porch. Angela laying dead and pale on top of her lover, in the room next to the one where he now slept with Clara. Richard saw it even as his eye swept the house, looking for anything else out of place. He pushed the vision away.

Even in their terror they worked methodically. Each had their gun out, and they kept each other in view as they entered the house and started sweeping the rooms. They both saw the metal plant stand by the front door was turned over, the one that only had survived Jimmy's rage because it couldn't be burned. Nothing was amiss in the sunroom, living room, or dining room but the kitchen made both of their anxiety increase. Clara's purse sat in a kitchen chair. Two glasses of lemonade with melted ice sat on the table, next to a library copy of The Black Moth. A box from the grocer was on the counter, half unpacked. Also on the counter were two plates with Saratoga chips and half made ham sandwiches. A plate of ham lay abandoned on the counter. Richard touched it. Warm. Clara had been making lunch when something stopped her, and it had occurred a while ago. Where were they, he thought, and had to start breathing through his mouth because the press of his growing panic made breathing through his nose impossible.